A/N: Written for week 14 of SPN Hiatus Creations on tumblr. Prompt: Castiel.
WARNING: Some suicidal thoughts at one point.
Castiel's family was as good as dead. Lucifer had taken Jack, and Sam had gone with them, a sacrifice to protect their son, and Dean had said yes to Michael, his own sacrifice in the face of evil. And what had Castiel done? Nothing. There hadn't been anything he could do.
Michael had wings, wings that worked, that could help him fly and traverse the world, the universe. Lucifer had those wings. Jack had had such wings before Lucifer had taken his Grace right in front of them, sickening Castiel to the core. And Castiel didn't have wings, not ones that he could be proud of.
His wings were still healing from The Fall. They hurt, they were broken, featherless. Ugly, and useless.
Useless, just like Castiel.
He hadn't been able to stop Lucifer from taking Jack's grace.
He hadn't been able to stop Lucifer from taking Jack away.
He hadn't been able to stop Sam from going with them.
He hadn't been able to stop Dean from saying yes.
Now he didn't know where they were, so he sat on the steps in the bunker, facing the library, sullen, nothing to do and nowhere to go.
He'd heard some of what had happened. But not all of it. Was Sam okay? Was Jack okay? Lucifer was dead. That much he knew. And Michael, well, he'd sensed a triumph from him. So he knew. He knew what had happened.
Dean was no longer Dean, and he was trapped inside himself, just like Sam had been those years ago with Lucifer.
And where was Castiel?
In the bunker, with people who didn't belong in this universe, with a worried mother that he didn't have the strength to talk to.
The bunker was so full, yet so empty.
His family wasn't in it.
And it was his fault.
How could it not have been?
What had he done?
Nothing. He'd done nothing.
Castiel had no purpose anymore.
He didn't know where Sam and Jack were. He didn't know how they were. Maybe Lucifer had killed them before Michael had slain him.
Dead.
And Dean was just as good as dead.
Castiel sat there, tears not coming, not sure he knew how to cry in the face of such anguish. He felt like he was screaming inside, hurting so deeply, that he couldn't even let it out. If he did he wouldn't stop. If he did maybe he would die.
Wings, broken, hurting.
Heart, broken, still beating. How was it still beating?
So much had changed, so much had been lost. Did Castiel have to lead these people that weren't from his universe? Would he have to take charge, fight Michael, the archangel who looked like one of his best friends?
How was he supposed to?
Castiel, though an angel and far more powerful than most beings in the universe, lacked even the strength to stand.
Just as he decided to never rise to his feet, he heard a familiar voice in his head, a voice he had thought he'd never hear again, from a man whose last word in his presence had been the hurried, terrified utterance of their son's name. He thought Jack would've been the last thing he'd ever hear from Sam.
But now he was praying to him, desperate, saddened, elated, a mix of so many things that Castiel nearly teared up, but he held it back and choked on it.
Sam was alive.
Jack was alive.
And he could go to them.
Sam's prayer had brought new life to his limbs, breathed into his exhausted Grace like nothing else could, and he was up, and he was running to the garage, to the Impala, to the last place that could feel like home in this crowded bunker.
Dean had never once let him drive it, but Dean was gone, and he'd left his keys; Castiel had grabbed them on the way.
He didn't know where the remainder of his family was, but he had a guess.
He was heading to them; he would bring them home.
Then maybe they could do the same for Dean.
He wasn't alone. The grief he had felt was dying, being filled with hope, a renewal of something that had been lost to him long ago.
But Dean…
Dean. They would save him. They had to.
But right now he had to bring back his family.
His wings were broken, but he could still travel.
Useless, not useless.
Maybe Castiel was both.
And for now, he was going to have to be okay with that.
He had been helpless and weak and pathetic, but this one thing he could do, and he was going to do it.
As he got into the Impala, feeling like a stranger in the driver's seat, he said, "I'm coming."
Wings wouldn't take him where he needed to go, and they felt like aching, ruined monstrosities, but this car, this one piece of home, would. It would take him to his family.